


One More Time

by orphan_account



Series: Homestuck Rarepair Swap 2014 [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Break Up, Bulges and Nooks, Crying, Dacryphilia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sadstuck, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you open the door, Dirk’s standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ubiquitousLinguist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ubiquitousLinguist/gifts).



> Please note that this fic contains a trans character receiving oral sex, just in case that is a trigger for anyone.
> 
> Thank you to [stunrunner](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stunrunner) for all their help editing.

You cup your hands below the gushing faucet and splash cold water in your face. It’s icy but offers a welcome contrast to the heavy ache of your cried-out eyes. You can’t look like a complete mess when Dirk gets here, and he’ll be arriving any minute now. Why the hell you’re seeing him again after the conversation you just had with him is beyond you.

_Are you fucking trying to kid yourself? All you want right now is to see him, and he’s giving you one last opportunity._

_Can you stop being melodramatic for one goddamn second? You’ll see him again plenty; it’s not like either of you is getting off this shitty meteor any time soon. This is just the last time you’re going to see him naked._

Normally the thought of Dirk’s muscular body would make your bulge squirm, but instead it just makes your throat constrict. He didn’t dump you officially until today, but you’ve been “on a break” for weeks. Now he finally wants to spend time with you again - because he misses the sex.

_You actually believed him when he said that? Don’t fucking flatter yourself; there’s no way you’re that good in bed. It’s a pity fuck, in the human sense, because he feels bad. He knows you must miss him so this is his awkward attempt to give you a consolation prize now that you’ve lost the chance to be with him._

Your eyes burn again and you grip the counter, grinding your teeth and staring down at the sink, the pasty basin marred with green dots of dried toothpaste. You are _not_ going to cry again; you have to get more composed right now, not less, god damn it.

_If Dirk broke up with you four weeks ago, why is it only starting to hurt this badly now?_

_Because you were in denial, you stupid piece of shit. You can watch hundreds of romantic comedies, lecture people on the intricacies of quadrants, and dispense advice faster than a Faygo vending machine popping out soda during the Murdermas, but you’re too far in denial to ever apply a single iota of that knowledge to your own life._

Slowly, you raise your eyes to view yourself in the mirror. You cringe and watch your reflection recoil at how awful you look. Your eyes are rimmed with red and your usually dour expression is as weak and hurt as a kicked puppy. Your hair’s a total mess, and your stupid, nubby horns look particularly pathetic and tiny. How could anyone ever be attracted to you?

Knock.

The sudden sound makes you jump, thrown out of your thoughts and back into the present reality. Dirk must be here. Dirk is here, and you still look like shit, and you haven’t taken a shower or even combed your hair -

Knock.

You bite your lip and take a deep breath, squeezing the counter one last time until your fingers hurt before spinning around. You can do this.

When you open the door, Dirk’s standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets. He’s wearing his shades and as used to them as you are, it still gets to you. You feel like he never looks you in the eye without them, and given the circumstances between you two right now, it makes you feel particularly vulnerable.

Stop being so fucking melodramatic; you’ve looked into his eyes before.

Just not as often as you had wanted. And after tonight, you never would again.

The uncomfortable silence festers for several long seconds before Dirk asks, “Can I come in?”

“Of course you can,” you snap. You step back, your entire body already aching from the horrible muscle tension of the stress gripping you, gripping every nerve of your body. You should be relaxed; you always used to relax around Dirk in a way you could with no one else. But no, now Dirk isn’t yours any more, and it sets you on edge.

You can spiral into a twister of emotions all you want, but nothing changes the fact that for better or for worse, Dirk is here right now, and expecting this to go somewhere. He steps in towards you and places a hand on your shoulder. Before you can help yourself, you’re burying your face in his t-shirt, inhaling the masculine, vaguely spicy scent of your matesprit.

_Ex-matesprit._

You bite your lip and absolutely do not come close to crying. Tears are not welling in the corners of your eyes. You just wrap your arms around him, and lose yourself in the familiar lines of his torso. Thanks to your stupid break - _how did you not realize “break” was code for “delayed break up”?_ \- you haven’t really touched him in two weeks. The last time that Dirk came here was for sex, and nothing more. Just like this time.

But you had willingly given him what you wanted, going so far as to beg Dirk to get you off, so how the hell can you complain? You wanted it just as much as Dirk did. Fuck, you should be grateful; if he just wanted to get laid, he could’ve gone back to Jake. Maybe he will after this.

“You okay?” asks Dirk, a wavering hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“What the fuck do you think?” you mutter. It comes out more pathetic than snarky, which only makes you _feel_ extra pathetic.

“That’s not actually an answer. Besides, as we’ve established, what I think doesn’t always line up with how you actually feel.”

“Can you not remind me of that right now?”

“Right.” Not sorry, but _right_. You’re suddenly aware that Dirk’s hands are still shoved in his pants, so you release him. You slouch back, no longer slumped against Dirk, and let your arms fall to your sides.

While you can’t see Dirk’s eyes, you’ve long ago learned to notice subtle motions that indicate what he’s watching. He lifts his chin slightly for a moment, like he’s looking past you, before lowering it again. He’s glancing at your futon, still in its sofa mode but at least in clean sheets, since you managed to get one thing done before you turned into a sobbing miserable mess again. You didn’t keep it down because it seemed presumptuous though, thinking back, that was really dumb.

“Did you actually want to fuck again?” he asks.

“Yeah.” It’s not a lie, just an understatement, and it’s for you more than it is for Dirk. Part of you is screaming that you’re a complete and total idiot. Your tone’s not even convincing, flat and listless, the drone of a condemned man rather than the cheer of an enthusiastic participant. But you do _want_ Dirk again. You just want more than Dirk is offering. But whose fault is that? Your own, not your ex-boyfriend’s. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to hook up with him, so why are you moping?

Everything is simultaneously comforting and familiar, and wrong and alienating. You shouldn’t be reacting the same way as you did before when Dirk places a hand on the nape of your neck, sending a jolt of electricity down your spine, and pulls you in for a kiss. Your situation is entirely different, everything between you has changed- but the physical elements haven’t changed and your body reacts accordingly. He’s still a head taller than you, which you find even more endearing than you find frustrating, and your lips still fit together seamlessly.

_But you aren’t, you melodramatic fool. He just wants to fuck you again._

_Just because he wants space doesn’t mean it’s over forever._

_Yes, it fucking does. He explicitly told you that. How many reasons did he give you when you asked why he didn’t want to be with you?_

A terrible feeling makes the corners of your eyes twitch, tears threatening to make an appearance as the list of your failings, so kindly provided by Dirk mere hours ago ( _why the fuck did you ask him why?_ ), replays itself behind your closed eyes.

TT: Your jealousy is unreasonable and uncalled for. No matter how many times I tell you that I don’t want to be with Jake any more, you keep bringing him up and questioning my motives when I do see him.  
TT: Worse, you compared yourself to him, rather than accepting that I could like you for _you._  
TT: You reduced my complex romantic and sexual drive to a “Type” - a caricature. And you did so purely on the basis of your own insecurity.

You shove the memory out of your mind, gripping Dirk’s muscular biceps and focusing all your attention on his insistent lips. You want to shove that conversation as far back in your think pan as you can, to deal with it later, and getting lost in Dirk seems to be your only option for a distraction.

_He said you’re a good fuck, so you might as well work with that. Don’t waste your last time with him thinking about all your failings. Enjoy it._

_It’s not going to be my fucking last, you assmunch._

_Whatever you need to tell yourself to get through this without turning into a sniffling mess._

You know you’re lying to yourself, but you can’t fully process that this is ending either.

He squeezes your waist suddenly and it jolts you back to reality once again. You know he likes your subtle curves, at least more than you do; you envy all his angles - the sharp lines of his face, his narrow hips, his unfairly wide shoulders. You’re small and soft in comparison, and you hate it.

When he pulls away from the kiss, you lean in instinctively, trying to recapture his lips, but he only backs up further. You flinch when he pulls a hand away, but all he does is casually hook his thumb at the futon, and you kick yourself mentally. Luckily, he doesn’t mention it when he speaks.

“We should probably get that adjusted to a more convenient position.” Oh. Right. It’s still in sofa mode, since you stupidly set it back to that after putting clean sheets on it.

“Oh. Yeah.” Usually you put it down before Dirk showed up so that you two could get right down to business. He usually ended up sleeping on it afterwards, since one of the few challenges you two never overcame was finding a mutually agreeable sleeping arrangement. At least this way, he was able to sleep in the same room with you, even though you went back to your recuperacoon. But something tells you he won’t be sleeping over tonight.

The two of you stand awkwardly for a moment before he pulls away and moves to fix said futon. You help, or at least try to, which is stupid since it’s really a one-person job. When it’s down, you place yourself on the edge of it, unpleasant tension coiled around your spine as you sit straight and vainly try to remember what relaxing feels like. You want him and you need him and you love him _(you can’t think about that right now, you dumbfuck)_ but you no longer know how to feel comfortable around him.

Dirk kicks off his shoes and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his toned torso. Your blood pusher pounds with a combination of anxiety and desire; clearly, he’s not wasting any time. There are little scars on his chest, one of his unique features that you love in some strange way you can’t explain. They’re a shade whiter than his already-pale skin, and there are five total. You know each and every one like your own body - probably better, actually, since you try not to examine yours too closely, but you’ve intimately examined his many, many times. There’s one small line across his collarbone, one near his bellybutton, and a longer, thicker one on his left side. The remaining two are horizontal and below his nipples, mirror images of each other and slightly raised. You know from experience that of all the scars he has, those are the only ones he doesn’t like you focusing on.

Dirk’s hands move immediately to his belt, the stupid, heavy, _impractical_ thing with that ludicrous Batman symbol in the middle. OK, maybe it was useful back when he was exploring his session’s planets, but that was years ago. Now he just wears this outfit because he thinks he looks hot in it. Yeah, it’s less dumb than his Prince outfit, but that’s saying virtually nothing, like saying something is dryer than the ocean.

“See something you like?” he asks dryly as he slowly unhooks said belt.

“No, I was just thinking about how dumb your belt is,” you reply, glaring at him. You try to keep your eyes on his face, but the way he smirks is just too much, a javelin piercing straight through your heart, and your cheeks warm uncomfortably. You drop your gaze back to his waist, where he’s now releasing his belt and letting it drop with a clatter to the floor. OK, that’s not making you blush any less, but at least you don’t feel him staring you down as he undoes his fly.

Your bulge twitches. You should be stripping now too but you already feel naked and vulnerable without so much as lifting a hem, so you shove your hands in your pockets as Dirk’s pants fall to reveal black-and-yellow Batman boxers that match his ridiculous accessory.

“My belt is fuckin’ awesome,” Dirk replies. “You’re one to talk about fashion, with your beloved gray-on-gray wardrobe. Which, by the way, I can’t help but notice that you’re still wearin’.”

Usually this is the point where you’d challenge him to _make_ you undress if he cares so damn much, but you can’t quite bring yourself to ask for it. Luckily, after he steps out of his pants, he moves in anyway.

Dirk straddles you and presses his crotch against yours. Despite the three layers of fabric between your junk and his, the psychological effect alone is enough to make your bulge slide from its sheath and your nook give a pleasant spasm. He grabs the bottom of your shirt and you hold up your arms, letting him tear it off you.

His fingertips immediately return to your body, tracing you from neck to clavicle to shoulder to ribs to the last set of wiggler leg scars right above the line of your pants. You shiver under his touch, a reaction which you don’t even try to suppress as you kiss him again, his mouth liquid on yours. You want to lose yourself in him and never come to, even as each breath comes a little bit harder than it should. Each inhale feels like you’re being stabbed and each exhale you have to force out; the thought never leaves the back of your mind that _this is your last time with him_.

Dirk pulls his lips away and presses his cheek against yours, his breath warm on your ear as he whispers. You shudder as he says words you’ve heard from him many, many times over but never get tired of hearing. “I want you to suck me off.”

“Yeah, fuck, sure,” you stammer. “Just let me get these fucking pants off first.”

Dirk grinds his crotch against yours for a moment longer before he slides off of you, immediately diving in for your pants. You end up letting him take them off, lying back on the futon and thrusting your hips into the air so he can shimmy them off of you. Before you can move, he goes for your underwear next, pulling your briefs off and revealing your flushed, full bulge.

“Nice job, genius,” you mutter. “I’m not the one who needs to be naked for this.”

“Yeah, but you are the one who’s going to get antsy about his bulge being trapped about a minute into this and try vainly to claw off your tighty-whities while keepin’ your lips wrapped around me if I don’t strip you first.”

“First of all, fuck you, and second of all, that only happened twice.” You push yourself back on the futon, grabbing a pillow and placing it under your head.

“And the only reason it didn’t happen a third time is because I’ve been getting you naked every instance since.” As he talks, Dirk loops his thumbs under the top of his boxers and starts to tug them off. You flop your head down lazily, only to lash back up when it hits you that you’re not going to see this again.

Dirk’s tongue darts out and flicks against his bottom lip as he keeps bringing his boxers down until the elastic is well past his groin and he can just let them fall to the floor. The head of his cock sticks out between the folds of his vulva.

Dirk climbs onto the futon, tossing his shades to the floor with his clothes nonchalantly, and you lie your head against the pillow again, heat pooling in your stomach as he climbs over you. He places a leg on either side of your face and sinks down until his dick is right up against your lips. You press a kiss against it before eagerly opening your mouth and giving it a long lick. Dirk’s moan comes out quiet from between clenched teeth, but it’s undeniable. He grabs one of your hands and places it on his ass, which you squeeze eagerly. It’s as toned as the rest of him.

You can feel the wetness of Dirk’s front hole, his arousal leading him to practically drip against your chin. It doesn’t matter in the slightest, but only eggs you on as you lap at him with your tongue, running up and down the length of him, flicking against the head of it with extra care. His noises are a familiar music to your ears, heavy breaths and half-suppressed gasps and quiet moans.

Those thoughts that you had pushed aside start to creep into the corners of your consciousness again, muting the sensation of Dirk’s hand gently tugging your hair. No, fuck that; you’re going to fucking _enjoy_ having your mouth on him, not lying here remembering how he said you were abrasive.

Dirk rocks his hips back and forth eagerly, growing louder and noticeably less restrained. You struggle to keep your tongue on the tip of his cock as he moves, but luckily you’re well-practiced at this by now. You give his ass a tight squeeze, digging in a bit with your fingernails, as you wrap your lips around his dick and lick it with quick, fervent motions as you suck gently. He struggles against you a bit, but the sounds he makes are absolutely glorious. Your bulge rubs against your own thigh, desperate for stimulation, and the taste of him on your lips is intoxicating.

“Fuck, god damn it, don’t fuckin’ stop,” he gasps, each word coming out hard and heavy. You never want to stop. The desperation drips off each of his syllables, and you’re pretty sure if you were touching yourself, you’d get off in about three seconds. When he says that, you know he’s close _and this is the last time you’ll see him climax, the last fucking time-_

“FUCK!” he yells, his voice cracking then crashing down, cock throbbing against your tongue. His grip on your hair tightens and his other hand grabs your horn and in a terribly selfish moment you really wish he’d put that hand somewhere where you could feel it. Being human, he doesn’t gush all over your face like you’re used to seeing in troll porn, but it never makes the moment any less exhilarating.

When he pulls himself off of you, you lick the last traces of him off your lips and wipe the drops you can't get with your tongue with the back of your hand. He sits next to you, slumped over and slowly catching his breath.

"Grab my boxers for me, would you?" You oblige and scoot to the edge of the futon to grab said item and toss them over to him. He pulls them on quickly, and once they're donned, he visibly relaxes. You, on the other hand, feel more on edge than ever. Usually he wants to get you off too, but what if this is all he wanted? What if he's about to put on the rest of his clothes and abscond?

"You don't have to stay all the way over there," he says. You know he’s trying to help you chill out, but you still feel tense as you move towards him and feel him wrap an arm around your naked waist. He presses his mouth against your neck, the warm, gentle touch of his lips sending a shiver down your spine.

Your bulge, obediently curled against itself but not quite retracted into its sheath, comes to life again as Dirk's lips ghost along your neck, alternating light kisses and soft exhales and impossibly-gentle nips. It strikes you that you're never going to find someone like this again, because god he has _finesse_. He learned uncannily fast exactly how to turn you on, and after tonight, all that knowledge is going to rot uselessly in the impenetrable wilderness of his think pan. It’ll fester and decay in that mind you thought you had figured out, but that you now realize must still be alien to you. If you understood him, you could keep him from leaving you.

Your next gasp comes out choked, and Dirk hesitates, his mouth lingering over your skin as he asks, "Are you okay?". You're not okay, but you will more acutely be not okay if you don't feel his lips against you right now, so you breathe, "Yes," and sigh in relief when the lie is accepted as easily as you uttered it.

Dirk rubs one of your horns again, a habit you know he does solely out of his own fascination with your species, since you've pointed out on multiple occasions that you can't even feel it. It doesn't bother you, though, especially not as Dirk's other hand slides down to cup one of your buttocks.

His mouth finds its way up to the line of your jaw, then the curve of your ear, nibbling and licking just enough to drive you wild. Each flick of his tongue fills you with another drop of desire, new ones constantly rippling through you even as the previous ones fade.

Slowly, he pushes you down against the bed, and the hand on your ass slides around to rest on your hip. Your bulge reaches for him and when he finally lets it brush against his fingers, the tiny sensation sends a powerful rush of need through you.

"Fuck, touch me, please," you say, words tumbling out before you can stop them. Dirk pulls away from your neck and gives you the cockiest grin as he settles himself between your legs, the hand previously on your horn going straight to your nook. He wastes no time sliding one finger in and _fuck_ , you're so wet and ready for him already that it feels like perfection, nothing less.

But perfection is a moving target and as soon as you have it, it's gone again and you need more. You whine embarrassingly as he takes his time caressing your bulge, stroking it but refusing to give it the squeezes you need to approach orgasm. You can feel your nook contracting around his finger, undulating and begging for more, for just the smallest bit of motion.

"What, is there somethin' more you want?" he asks mockingly. You know how much he likes to hear you beg, but a small bitter kernel in you does not under any circumstances want to give him that satisfaction, not now that he's ridding himself of you.

But you’re weak; all Dirk has to do is gently close his fingers around the base of your bulge and you crack, you crack so easily. Pleas spill from your lips, asking, _begging_ for him to do that again, to do more, to do _everything_. Yup, you're giving him that satisfaction and you hate yourself for it, but more so you hate yourself for how much you want this, how _good_ this feels.

 _He’ll never touch you like this again._ The thought keeps looping in your mind, and it aches horribly deep in your chest, but it’s not enough to override the currents of arousal from your finally-attended-to genitals. The closer you get, the worse you feel; it’s harder to breathe with all the pressure building up inside of you, coupled with trying not to get those pesky tears escape the corners of your eyes. Every inch of you feels tense, almost to the point of paralysis, as Dirk rhymically pumps his finger in and out of your nook while he massages your bulge. You’re not going to lose control; you’re going to enjoy this, and you’re going to come, and you’ve never simultaneously been so turned on and so miserable before.

As the physical effects of orgasm overwhelm you, you completely dissolve into tears. You can't stop your sobs any more than you can stop the way your spine arches and your bulge pulses under his grip and your nook gushes around Dirk's finger. The dam is broken; you choke miserably, liquid pouring from your eyes as well as your groin, your cries loud and pathetic and guttural. You’re so loud you almost miss the sharp inhale from Dirk, but you don’t miss how he leans in and fucking milks you harder, tightening his hand on your length so much that it hurts.

The stream of fluid from your nook is just starting to slow when Dirk presses mercilessly against your shame globes. You can’t even manage a coherent “fuck” as a jet of it squirts out with renewed intensity, the amazing feeling reverberating deep inside of you. All of you is in pain and all of you feels wonderful, and with each movement Dirk just draws it out.

All in all, your orgasm probably lasts about thirty seconds, which is a new damn record even given that your climaxes last longer than human ones do typically. It would be a cause for celebration, if it weren’t for how horrifically drained you feel when it ends, still silently crying. When Dirk moves back and gets up to awkwardly look for a towel to clean off his arm (which is splattered in slick red from elbow down, his hand completely covered), your sobs only worsen. You try to quiet yourself ineffectually, but the reality that _it’s fucking over for good_ won’t leave you.

He turns around, hand still filthy with your fluids, and looks down at you. Behind wet eyes, you can see from the drawn line of his face and his furrowed brow that he has no idea what to do. He looks vulnerable, and _stupid_ without his shades, but not a fraction as vulnerable and stupid as you are, because those four feet between you and him might as well be miles, because he’s never going to touch you again.

_You’re being melodramatic. There’s always hope, once you mellow out a bit, you taintsniffing wreck._

“Can I do anything for you?” he asks awkwardly, just standing there and making no move to give you the only thing he actually might be able to give you now, which is his touch.

You open your mouth and try to speak, but all that comes out is another ungodly noise, and you completely break down. Your mind is broken source code, stuck in an endless loop, and there’s no way out. There’s no one to fix you, and with your connection with Dirk gone, you’re going to be stuck alone with the miserable loser that is yourself. You bury your face in your hands, and suffer through the wracking sobs, waiting for him to leave.

**Author's Note:**

>  _I must confess, that my loneliness_  
>  _Is killing me now_  
>  _Don't you know I still believe_  
>  _That you will be here_  
>  \- Britney Spears, _... Baby One More Time_
> 
> If you enjoyed this piece, you can find more about me and my writing at [gendersquare.tumblr.com](http://gendersquare.tumblr.com).


End file.
